Home is a state of mind, if Nemaean starships are any indication. More to the point, the common Nemaean aesthetic de-emphasizes the "pretty" and "ergonomic" forms that humans often associate with comfort, security, and replaces those ideals with something more like the metalicized innards of a gargantuan, vacuum-dwelling cetacean. I learned this--first hand--on board the Lev, en route to Capsia 9. "It is [a] necessary contrivance," Chernislav Havek declared, in obvious response to my display of claustrophobia. He spoke with a deep, lilting, and article-free accent, apparently dissecting me with a dark, unblinking gaze. "Why?" I asked. "For [the] pilot-navigators," he answered, cryptically, and the note of finality in his voice told me (more clearly than any words could,) that he'd say no more on the topic. Lieutenant Havek was one of two officers drafted into duties as my escort. Tall and dark, he was born on the world of New Mali, Lieutenant Havek violated all of what I'd come to expect of Nemaean ethnic diversity. As one of our own shortcomings, we tend to think of the Nemaeans in monolithic and mono-ethnic terms. Lieutenant Radoslav Gryszkin--younger and more boyish in overt demeanor--violated a completely different set of assumptions. Where Lieutenant Havek spoke in half-riddles and dark mysterious innuendos, Lieutenant Gryszkin exuded enthusiastic curiosity about all things non-Nemaean. In a way, I felt as if Gryszkin and Havek were engaged in an elaborate ploy of good Nemaean/bad Nemaean, and if they were, then Gryszkin apparently relished his role. But, most intriguingly--during a prolonged bout of insomnia, I left my cabin as the Lev crossed the orbit of Caspia 12. â��Do you want to see [a] Rüskoy convoy?" Gryszkin asked me as I'd made my way into the ship's commons. "Havek is watch officer--he will not restrict you from deck." In the space of a single, eager question, I was given covert access to a restricted area of the ship. I nodded my acceptance of his offer, and in moments, I stood in one of the small observation modules while a quartet of Rüskoy vessels moved into silent, graceful rendezvous with two massive Nemaean escort cruisers. Gryszkin, Havek, and I were the only people in the module, and as I glanced down--to avoid any treacherous irregularities on the ill-lit deck--I realized that there was more to my Nemaean companions than I'd suspected. "The pilot-navigators are swimming two decks down," Havek said, noting the direction of my glance and seemingly interpreting it as a question. "Swimming?" I asked. Havek nodded, but of course, he said no more on the topic. **** The image here is actually more a part of my personal Nemaean Journal--more a mood capture than anything, and in looking at it now, I can see where it still needs a bit of smothing over, but as it's also just a fun picture (at least for me) I decided to post it here...and for those who have a keen eye...YES...this particular room on board the fictional Lev IS actually a gussied up version of a particular bar in Prague. As always, thank you for viewing and commenting. Hopefully you enjoy this image as much as I'm enjoying making up this whole, convoluted SF drama. (And yeah, there's kind of a self portrait in here too...the guy on the right is my evil Nemaean twin. The guy on the left is just some drummer I snapped a picture of.)